


wage your war

by leupagus



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wonder if I can ever hurt you enough,” he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wage your war

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waldorph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/gifts).
  * Inspired by [hidden far away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114519) by [waldorph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph). 



> Written for waldorph, who wanted some porn. She's pretty anti-feelings-in-porn and I tried really hard, but this was the best I could do.

“Stay here,” he whispers, lips pressed against her neck, “Stay.” 

She hums something in response — in either agreement or objection, but she does not rise from the bed after he leaves her warmth, and that is all the acquiescence he can expect. The door locks from both within and without; answer enough, he supposes, as he turns the key.

The day is spent in affairs of state; the kingdom has once again set its shoulders to the work of the delving, sending dwarves deep into the mountain to dredge up the treasures hidden from them there. There is talk of the overground world, bleached with the sun, but it grows ever more distant beneath the stone.

It is evening when he returns; the key turns and the door opens.

“Will you ever keep it unlocked?” she asks, instead of “good evening, my king,” or any of the hundreds of things she could say, should probably say. She has never said what she ought.

He does not answer straight away; she must wait for him, and besides, he is occupied with the pleasure of seeing her still in his bed, the furs rumpled under her but none thrown over her bare form (the mountain runs hot to those who are not dwarves, and she complained of it, but not even the keeper of the king’s heart can change that). But he suspects her of disobedience: “You have stirred from that spot.”

How much would he like to be granted the same wide-eyed respect from her that he has so often seen in the eyes of others — in those who follow and those who fight him, he has earned at least enough to be feared. But she who has endured the most from him (and will continue to endure it, until the breaking of her spirit or his), will not be moved by terror. Instead she smiles — _grins_ , a cruelty that he will not forgive for a long time to come — and stretches upon the bed. “I very much doubt you would want me to answer the call of nature amongst the furs,” she replies. “Besides, you left me in rather a state. Or did you want me to remain here soiled and sticky all day?”

“I did,” he replies, and shucks off his armor, his crown, his boots, until he can crawl atop her once again, find where he had marked his place along her body with a swirling, purpling bruise. “But no matter. You cannot wash this off.”

She goes quiet now, pliant in a way that still shocks him with its newness, though it has been months now since his first claim upon her, on the cold stone of a still-unconquered mountain. He has kept his promise (made good on his threat) and kept her for himself, away from anyone who might try to take her. Even so, it is not fear that she gives him with her silence — fear from her, he begins to realize, is an impossibility far beyond the restoration of a mountain and the survival of a hopeless battle. She cannot fear him any more than a fist can fear the sword it wields; he will cut down armies, nations, at her command. Perhaps that is why she speaks so seldom in this place between their bodies.

Still, the sword is not powerless. And he can take something better than fear from her. 

“No,” she breathes, as he presses his thumb into the bruise. It was carefully placed this morning on her right hip, right at the bone, right where she will feel it if she rolls over or sits up. He digs his nail in and she makes a sound, a beautiful broken sound that is part pain and mostly pleasure, but all of it wrapped in impatience. She shifts under him — but not to get away.

“I wonder if I can ever hurt you enough,” he says, and leans down to bite at the mark, gentler, his hands occupied now with spreading her thighs wide so that he can move from hip to navel to the fragrant thatch of hair that covers her cunt. “If there is anything I can do to wound you sufficiently.”

After all, a weapon is nothing but injury. He remembers the elvish sword — Orcrist, Goblin-Cleaver, Daylight-Slayer, names and more names, but none of the names changed its nature. He is only one thing, no matter what he is called.

She does not tense beneath him, only yawns her thighs wider as he inhales her scent. Here also are marks — redness along the lips, where she has stretched around him so tightly ( _it’s too_ , she gasped the first time, _you’re too_ ), and he knows that it’s sore and tender, for she has stopped asking him for salve. He licks at the reddest mark, tasting her wetness and her sweat. She does not thread her hands into his hair; when he looks up, they are clenched into the furs and she is propped on her elbows, watching him.

“Tell me what would hurt you,” he murmurs against her cunt, his hands curled around her knees, keeping her pinned open for him.

She says nothing, but bites her lip, her hips rocking her up into his mouth. He nips at the fold of skin right above her clit and she gasps. “That,” she says, and he does not know if it is an answer or a plea. He does not care.

Another careful bite, and another, worrying the flesh until there is sweat beading on her upper lip and along her chest, until he can hear her panting. Only then does he make his way up her body, pausing at various hurts along the way — a bruise just under her left breast where he had bitten, the chafed skin at her wrist where his rope had rubbed raw, the burn under her arm where he had dripped hot lamp oil. He kisses them each in turn, regretful, resentful, reverent.

“Thorin,” she whispers, finally within reach, and he kisses her even as he presses his cock along her slit, hoarding her wince as he rubs against against his newest infliction. But her legs are wrapped around his hips and she is so wet for him, his rutting made smooth by her want. He tucks his feet beneath him, kneeling underneath her in some parody of prayer, as he presses inside.

In this alone she seems to fight him; this alone requires patience even after all he has done to her, with her. For a week after their first joining he filled her with ever larger shafts, smooth heavy stones of jade and tigereye and marble — although he wants to hurt her, relishes each injury, he shied away from the blood she shed. It was she who had discarded them, reaching instead for him.

But even then she is still a vise around his cock, spasming and clenching down around him. He gathers her up into his arms, lifting her easily until she is splayed out indecent upon his lap, her own weight bearing her down, her neck level with his mouth. He’s scraped his beard across the tender skin here, too, bruised it with teeth and fingers — there is a necklace around her throat, but still he cannot stop his need to fit his fingers against the rocking pulse at the hinge of her jaw, squeeze at the fragile line of her windpipe as she sinks down.

She has wound herself around him, arms and legs, and as her breath grows ragged she kisses him, open and wet and sweet. At last she is settled fully, his cock buried in her, and she twists her hips lazily as he holds her fast.

“Is this enough?” he asks her, _begs_ her. “Tell me, is it enough?”

And she laughs, a high thing that escapes her throat, buzzing against his fingers like a trapped firefly. “Never,” she tells him. "Never."


End file.
